


felled by you, held by you

by lowtides



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Drinking Games, Emotional Constipation, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Literal Sleeping Together, Mutual Pining, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Spooning, they're not happy about it, touch-starved jacob ayyy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-08-25 07:33:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16656892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowtides/pseuds/lowtides
Summary: In the middle of her shivering, Rook realizes something terrible, and if the dread does anything, it only makes her colder. It’s so cold now that the fire isn’t helping as much as it could, it’s so cold now that even Jacob can’t hide the slight chatter of his teeth.It’s so cold now that they justmighthave to resort to body heat.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title song: [NFWMB](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pi6pLTrx94Q) by hozier

In hindsight, Rook was warned about the storm. Truly warned—not from some tell of the greying sky or jitters from the wildlife in the Whitetail Mountains ( _sure, those warning signs were there too but whatever_ ), no, a warning was literally broadcasted across Hope County. But did she listen? Well yeah, it was loud as fuck and coming from every speaker available, but that didn’t mean she had to _listen_.

In her defense, it was Joseph Seed broadcasting the warning. Not in weatherman speak, which might have actually had more skeptics believe his warning, but _no_ , he called this shit one of the _harbingers of the forthcoming Collapse_. Cue everyone in The Spread Eagle boo-ing and throwing finger foods at the TV.

Maybe, just maybe, if the fucking Father had just called it _heavy as fuck rain and hail_ , then maybe Rook would have gotten the message. It’s not supposed to rain this time of year, not supposed to be pouring fucking ice and buckets of water, so the people of Hope County who didn’t listen to the latest Seed broadcast are quite underprepared.

A crack of lightning here, a rumble of thunder there, and the roar of rain pouring heavily from the midnight sky. It started up at full force in just a few seconds. Rook is fucking drenched and in the middle of the woods, getting attacked by random bits of hail that fall at the sky’s own whims.

Luckily though, she’d seen a small cabin just a short trek back. The trek itself is grueling in the storm, a herculean effort. Hail aside, the rain itself is verging on _bruising_.

_Stupid Collapse, stupid fucking omens._

When Rook finally reaches the cabin, cold and thoroughly rained ( _and hailed_ ) on, she wastes no time barging through the door and slamming it shut. Rook leans against the door, squeezing her eyes shut and sighing with relief. It’s warm inside the cabin. Rook cherishes the warmth thawing out her cold bones for a moment, uncaring for the small puddle of rainwater gathering on the floor beneath her.

Then her eyes snap open, because as welcome as the warmth is, she just got here. Meaning that there’s no way in hell she was the one who lit the fireplace.

“Well, shit,” Rook mutters, finally noticing another soaked person inhabiting the cabin.

She’d go for one of her many drenched weapons, but a sudden movement such as that would get her killed. All she can do is tense up against the door and glare at the gun Jacob Seed points at her from the fireplace.

_Jacob fucking Seed. Really? Of all the people that could have run to this cabin when the rain started?_

“Deputy—well, who would’a thought, huh?” Jacob says slowly, over the crackling of the fire. The crawl of his voice would practically be considered _warm_ if his crooked grin didn’t look razor sharp. Too many teeth. He gestures to her arsenal with the flick of his handgun. “Drop your weapons.”

“No need,” Rook smiles sourly, boots splashing in the puddle of water on the floor as she shuffles around and opens the door. “Cabin’s all yours, asshole.”

It’s fucking comical the way the lightning cracks across the sky, devastatingly close to the cabin, the exact moment Rook swings open the door. _Fuck._

“You sure about that?” Jacob asks, sounding almost amused.

_Maybe it’s not that bad. Maybe I can last long enough out there to find shelter._

Rook stares out the cabin hard, thinking of her options. Her last shred of hope topples down when a tree about twenty feet away cracks near the base and comes crashing down. She winces.

“Close the fucking door, Deputy. You’re not going anywhere, so stop letting the cold in.”

 _Shit shit shit._ Rook closes the door, turning around slowly. She can risk it, draw one of her weapons and kill Jacob—he needs her alive, otherwise he would have killed her three kidnappings ago, but… it’s risky. Would he forget that Joseph wants her alive when it comes to his own self-defense?

“Weapons down. M'not gonna say it again.” Jacob’s closer now, away from the fire and a couple feet in front of her. She notices now that he’s just as drenched as she is, though from the fluff returning in his damp hair it shows he’s been in the cabin for a good while now.

“Fine,” Rook says through gritted teeth. She shrugs off her rifle, handing it over to him. Handgun still trained on her, his free hand rises to take the surrendered weapon.

Rook doesn’t waste a breath, with both his hands occupied she veers to the side, away from his gun and draws her own sidearm, taking the shot as soon as it lines up. She’s fast, but not fast enough.

Jacob leans back just in time to avoid the shot that rings out, and swings the rifle she handed to him in a powerful arc, the end of it colliding _hard_ with the side of her head. Rook falls with a strangled noise, the world spinning and spinning until she hits the ground.

 

-

 

Rook wakes up shivering. Thunder booms outside, making the ache in her head worse. It’s loud, maybe even louder than before. She bolts up, hands instinctively patting around for her weapons—which aren’t there.

“Shit, you’re awake,” a voice says from above. “Y’just can’t make this easy, can you?”

Rook blinks and glances up from where she is on the floor. _Oh, right, this ginger asshole._ Jacob stands above her, sticking his hands out close to the fire for warmth. Rook’s lying down next to the fire, still shivering slightly, but she realizes Jacob must have dragged her closer to the fireplace. At least she can count on her survival, knowing now that he’s definitely making an effort to not kill her.

“What the hell do you mean, _‘make this easy’_?” Rook says rigidly, trying to stifle the chattering of her teeth.

“If you stayed out, I could’a waited out this whole storm in silence. Some peace and fuckin’ quiet.”

“The thunder is louder than this conversation.”

“Can’t shut mother nature up,” Jacob half-shrugs, “Though it turns out I can’t shut you up either.”

“Why are you here, anyway?” Rook asks, trying to add some venom to her voice but the whole shivering thing undermines it. She sits up straighter, hugging her arms to her chest. Her clothes are soaked, the fire is good but the wet clothes aren’t helping. She leans closer to the fire, gritting her teeth. “Why leave your fucking fortress during a storm?”

Jacob glances down at her, eyes narrowed in consideration. Rook briefly eyes the gun in the holster around his thigh, noting that she’s unarmed but he isn’t. In fact, with a scan of the room, she doesn’t see her weapons anywhere. He’s hidden them well, and she can try, but she’s pretty sure she’d die if she attempts hand-to-hand combat with him.

His military jacket has been discarded, draped over a chair close to the fire to dry. The rushing winds howl outside, rattling at the windows.

“I was tracking the Wolf’s Den myself,” Jacob says carefully, cold blue eyes still narrowed. “The hunt has been going for too long, thought I’d give it a few tries myself before I send my scouts again. Heard the storm warning too late.”

Rook doesn’t know if he’s clenching his teeth because he doesn’t want to discuss his plans or because he’s trying to stifle his shivering as well.

_“Jacob.”_

Both of their heads snap to the radio resting on the nearby table. Jacob strides over to it quickly, _fuckin’ finally_ muttered under his breath as he picks up the radio.

“Joseph,” Jacob greets calmly. “About time you got back to me. Any news on when the sky’s gonna clear again? Soon?”

_Please say soon._

_“The Voice answered at last,”_ Joseph says through the static of the radio. _“God has told me the omen shall pass tomorrow at sunset.”_

“Fuck,” Rook curse quietly.

Jacob’s eyes dart to her for a moment, then out the window, assessing the storm. He doesn’t look pleased by Joseph’s words either. He says his goodbyes to Joseph and sets down the radio.

Rook stares into the fire, nervously chewing her lip. This is bad, oh, this is bad. Shit, what if it ends up going on for longer? There’s food in this cabin, right? After that whole _Miller_ speech the last time she was in the cage, Rook is _not_ keen on being stuck with Jacob in a no-food situation.

No way. No way in hell is she staying stuck shivering here with Jacob fucking Seed until _tomorrow’s_ sunset. No fucking way. _Okay. New plan. Wait till the storm gets even the tiniest bit better, then haul ass out of here._

Then of course, because things _have_ to get worse, one of the windows shatter. The sound of glass breaking has Rook jumping to her feet. Shards fall to the ground, getting pushed slightly by the howling winds now coursing through the small space of the cabin. The culprit tree branch shudders in the wind, slamming against the side of the cabin.

Rook hurries towards the table, picking up Jacob’s radio and tossing it to him. He reacts almost instantly, catching the radio and frowning at her.

“The hell are you doing?” He asks, voice almost lost to the wind.

“Fucking help me with this,” Rook says, teeth grit with effort as she pushes the table towards the broken window. When she gets in front of the broken window, she curses under her breath, the wind is _bad_. It’s fucking freezing outside. She tightens her grip on the table’s edge and starts lifting it up.

Jacob, at last, seems to understand what she’s doing. He joins her in lifting the table. It’s difficult as the wind tries to push it back down, but with the help of Jacob’s muscle they both manage to flip the table to its side, pressing the tabletop against the window frame as a haphazard attempt to board up the broken part of it.

A draft of chilly air is still coming through, but it’s a million times better than before. Not a great solution, but it’s something. The problem now is the fact that it’s gotten even colder with this breach, and they both got drenched again from some of the rain flying in.

In the middle of her shivering, Rook realizes something terrible, and if the dread does anything, it only makes her colder. It’s so cold now that the fire isn’t helping as much as it could, it’s so cold now that even Jacob can’t hide the slight chatter of his teeth.

It’s so cold now that they just _might_ have to resort to body heat.

“You’re not gonna like this,” Rook starts, cold and wet clothes clinging uncomfortably to her. _Just fucking bite the bullet now._ “But if we’re really stuck here until this storm dies out, we’re gonna freeze to death if we don’t—”

“I know,” Jacob says grimly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This goddamn storm.”

And then he starts _taking off his shirt_.

“Wait—whoa, what—what is this?” Rook blurts, eyes wide, pointedly looking at his mottled face and _not_ the scars and trail of red hair disappearing under his waistband. She waves her hands around, gesturing to his person. “What’s happening right now? We are _not_ on the same page here.”

Jacob rolls his eyes and tosses his wet shirt towards the chair his military jacket is drying on. “Freezing temperatures and wet clothes, Deputy. Not a good combination. Hypothermia mean anything to ya?”

 _Shit. He’s right._ Rook scowls and starts with her belt buckle. “We will never speak of this.”

They both strip out of their wet clothes quickly, pointedly _not_ looking at each other, and lay their wet clothes by the fire. That’s how they both end up standing by the fire in their underwear, shivering and not making eye contact, the awkward tension in the cabin even worse than before.

Rook is stifling back a yawn when Jacob breaks the uncomfortable silence. “I’m guessin’ the idea you had was body heat?”

“It was,” Rook begrudgingly admits, glaring at Jacob ( _eyes up, eyes fucking up_ ). “Now it’s not. You know, because of _this_.” She roughly points down to their clothes drying by the fire and crosses her arms again, doing all that she can to somehow cover up. “I think stripping down is enough, thanks.”

It’s not. If anything it’s _worse_ because she’s still freezing but now in her bra and underwear. But there’s no fucking way she’s cozying up to _Jacob Seed_ while they’re both half-naked.

Jacob, grumpy expression ever-present, nods towards the bed. “The covers’ll be warm. No need to get all fuckin’ blushy, Deputy. This is survival.”

She _wasn’t_ blushing before, but now because of that asshole comment she feels her cheeks heating up. “The bed does sound good. Why don’t you go over there and shut the fuck up? I’ll stay here by the fire.”

A moment of silence. Rook feels Jacob’s eyes on her, assessing. It makes her want to rip open the floorboards and crawl underneath.

“Suit yourself,” Jacob shrugs, his casual tone turning cruel when he looks between her and the fire. “At the rate the fire’s goin’, it’s not gonna last any longer.”

“Wow, thanks for the insight,” Rook hisses between chattering teeth. “I’m so fucking enlightened by your wisdom.”

Jacob only scoffs in reply, dog tags swinging against his bare chest ( _don’t fucking stare_ ) as he takes three short steps and flops onto the lone bed. The bed itself is single sized—it’s shocking enough that Jacob’s gigantic frame fits in it, but if she gets in there she’s gonna have to get in _close_.

_Nope. Freezing to death it is._

It’s just damn annoying to hear Jacob shift under the most likely toasty sheets while she sits rigidly in front of the dwindling fire, trying her best not to freeze. Rook hugs her bare arms closer, huddling into herself as she continues her trembling in the cold.

About twenty minutes of thunder and wind fly by and Rook considers stepping _into_ the fireplace to get warmer. Sure, she’ll die a fiery death crawling up the chimney, but right now anything’s better than freezing like this.

“Deputy.”

Okay, well, not _anything_. Rook shuts her eyes, willing herself to fall asleep but she’s shivering too much for sleep to come. A chill breezes through the room, and Rook can’t help but sneeze.

Jacob’s voice is lower, huskier now from exhaustion and warmth. “For fuck’s sake, stop being bullheaded and get under the damn blanket.”

“How ‘bout you just throw me the blanket, and you can keep the bed?”

“Not a chance. I’m not interested in freezing to death, unlike you.”

Rook glares harder at the fire, reassessing her options. The wind howls outside, and another draft from the broken window wisps through the cabin, the table against it not doing enough to block the air from coming through. _Fuck this_.

 _“Fine_. Make some room, will you?” Rook abruptly stands and trudges over to the bed. Jacob scoffs and pushes back against the wall, but it doesn’t make much space. She lifts the blanket up and casts a warning glare at him. “No fucking funny business, Seed.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Don’t think too highly of yourself, Deputy.”

Rook slips into the bed, grumbling _whatever, asshole_ under her breath as she settles on the mattress. Brushing up against Jacob is unavoidable, and she hears him swear when her skin touches his.

“You’re fuckin’ freezing,” he hisses, futilely attempting to shrink back from her.

“No shit.”

A warm, scarred arm snakes under the sheets, looping around Rook’s midsection and pulling her almost flush against the body next to her. Rook makes a panicked sound. “What are you—”

“Getting comfortable,” Jacob explains flatly, shutting his eyes. “M’not sleeping on the goddamn wall, and this stops ya from falling out.”

Rook makes a displeased sound, shifting in the arm wrapped around her to face outward. _Why does he always have to be right?_ “If you ever bring this up during another kidnapping or some shit, I’ll fucking kill you.”

“You weren’t thinking of putting a bullet between my eyes before?” Flush against him, Rook literally feels the words _rumble_ against her back. He’s like a furnace, warmth is already spreading through Rook’s cold bones.

“You know what I mean,” she mutters.

Jacob only huffs in reply, and they lapse into silence. She hates that she’s thinking it, but she’s truly _cozy_ right now. The thunder outside sounds almost calming now. The ambiance of the storm combined with the rhythm of Jacob’s slow breathing behind her lulls her to sleep in minutes.

 

-

 

Rook wakes slowly, the rhythm of the rain outside stirring her awake. She shifts under the covers slightly and presses closer to the source of warmth next to her.

It’s when her forehead lightly bumps a cold metal chain that her eyes snap open. The first thing she sees are thin patches of red hair, scattered around a very scarred chest. The second thing she sees is JACOB SEED engraved on a small metal tag.

Her eyes go wide. Well, that’s woken her up.

Slowly, she tilts her head up to squint at Jacob’s scarred face. Eyes shut, not a single movement except for the occasional bristle of facial hair from his breaths—he’s still asleep. A lot of thoughts are storming through Rook’s panicked head, and the only one she can properly parse is that he looks _peaceful_.

Her next thoughts are _run_ and _go_.

It’s a time of fight or flight, and though she can definitely _fight_ , especially if she finds her weapons, something about fighting now feels wrong. It’s as if there are unspoken rules to the quiet of this cabin, and Rook feels that killing him at this very second isn’t the right way to go about things.

The warm, damningly comfortable arm around her is slackened from sleep, and Rook carefully shimmies out of it, then out of the bed. She’s careful not to lift the blanket too much, letting the cold air in might just wake him. She definitely doesn’t want to wake him, that could just make this even more awkward.

Quietly, gritting her teeth in the chilly morning air, she slips on her dried clothes. With her boots being the last thing to put on, she slips her socked feet into them and scans the room. Just like last night, her weapons are nowhere to be seen.

She chances walking around the room, wincing when the floorboards creak slightly. It’s fine, it doesn’t matter if he wakes now, because the second he does she’s out of here.

The cabin’s been ransacked completely, and after getting frustrated with empty cabinet after empty cabinet, she finally finds her weapons stashed under the sink in the kitchen area. _Score_.

She gathers them up and stills when the bed creaks.

Jacob’s stirring, and Rook does not intend on being present when he’s fully conscious. She slings her rifle over her shoulder, slips her throwing knives into her pack, and haphazardly scoops the rest of her crap up in her arms and walks briskly towards the door.

It’s still raining hard outside, but there’s no more thunder and lightning, and Rook doesn’t hear any more strong winds. She’s definitely gonna get sick walking out in the rain for hours before she finds any other shelter or person, but _fuck it_.

Jacob is definitely awake now, and when she passes the bed to make for the door she sees him bolt upright in her peripheral, hands pawing around for a weapon that isn’t there. Something akin to a snarl escapes him, perhaps this is the instinct of defending himself against an intruder in his sleep.

 _Get the fuck out, get the fuck out, get the fuck out._ Rook barely spares him a glance—her eyes, wide and confused, catch his own blues, alert and dangerous, for a split second before she kicks open the door.

Outside is cold and wet, and under the rain Rook definitely misses the warmth she had just now ( _the warmth, not the person_ ) as she hefts her guns and explosives in her arms.

When she’s made it off the porch, she pauses briefly, blinking through the rain dripping in her eyes to tuck her weapons and explosives into their respective packs and holsters. Then, common sense begone, she starts to fucking _sprint_ away from the cabin, in any direction that takes her far away from here.

She’s sure Jacob doesn’t follow her, because it’s likely he doesn’t even have pants on yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm fully aware that in-game Jacob's dog tags for some reason say JAKOB instead of JACOB, and i'm just gonna ignore that! this fic is gonna be short so i don't wanna spend anytime wrapping my head around the theories that circle the spelling lmao


	2. Chapter 2

Three days after the storm, Rook is _still_ sick. Granted, a couple of days is the regular lifetime of cold, and even the mother of all colds can’t last forever.

Joseph was right—the storm did clear at sunset. Sadly, Rook had fled the cabin just before noon and was stuck in the rain for hours before she found shelter. She hiked all the way to Holland Valley in the rain, just knowing she was better off going south instead of staying in Jacob’s Region.

Luckily, she spent her recovery time in one of the abandoned houses in Fall’s End. Mary May and Pastor Jerome ( _bless their hearts_ ) often stopped by with medicine or warm soup. Her friends avoided her, much to her own request. She’d rather they stay away from her and kick ass or something instead of staying with her and catching her cold.

Rook has told no one about Jacob and the cabin. Weird questions would probably be asked, and frankly, it’s awkward to say she shared a bed with him.

_Oh hey, Grace! You find a good place to shack up during the storm? That’s great. Oh, me? I snuggled up to Jacob Seed in my underwear because we were both gonna catch hypothermia!_

Yeah, no.

Unfortunately, with her lack of regular human interaction in her self-imposed quarantine, she can’t help but reflect back to that night. When she’s hacking up phlegm and trying to breathe through her stuffed and leaky nose, she thinks back to the ways she could have done that night differently.

If she scoped the cabin out beforehand, she would have seen him lurking inside. If she woke up in the middle of the night and strangled him in his sleep, she could have done Hope County a big favor. If she had any fucking sense that morning she could have shot him in the head.

Instead, she _literally_ crawled into bed with him. _What the fuck._ It was one thing to have to undress in front of him, to have him see nearly every scratch and scar and stretch mark, but it was another thing to sleep next to him.

But she got an eyeful herself, didn’t she? Both parties underdressed and vulnerable. Despite her better judgement, she _did_ notice his body. The casual flex of muscle when he moved, the patches of red hair ( _she knows that the hair feels soft, even, she’s been too close_ ), the scars. Oh, the _scars_ of all different shapes and sizes, wrapping around his torso—

“Deputy?”

Rook startles out of her thoughts. _Bad, bad thoughts._ Pastor Jerome stands in the open doorway, politely knocking on the doorframe.

“Oh god, Jerome, do you have any holy water on you right now?” Rook croaks from her swaddle of blankets on the sofabed. “Can you, like, flick the water at me? Seriously.”

Pastor Jerome blinks, and Rook notices the tupperware in his hands. “Excuse me?”

“Never mind. What’s that? More chicken soup?”

“Just so,” Jerome says with a smile. “Mary May had me send it over. How’s the cold treating you?”

He steps into the trashed living room and sets the soup on the kitchen counter lined with empty bowls and tupperwares from her last half-dozen soups.

“Oh,” Rook says with a lead tongue, her voice sounding different because of her cold. “It’s going great. Just me and my blanket burrito. So much fun.”

“Looks cozy,” Jerome remarks. “I’ll leave you to your rest then. Get well soon, Dep. The people need you.”

“Got it,” Rook sighs. “If I could shoot my cold the way I shoot all my problems, I would.”

Pastor Jerome chuckles lightly at that and steps out the door, giving her a little wave before he shuts the door.

_Aaaand alone. With my thoughts. Again._

 

-

 

A week later, Rook finds herself back at the cabin.

She’s been back a couple times, with its secluded and likely unknown location, she’s been using it as a place to stash the shit she picks up around the mountains. Stuff too heavy to carry and not urgently needed—extra clothes, extra medkits, a few bottles of cheap wine she found a few days ago.

It’s not like anyone would take the stuff. She only stops by the cabin during the day but she’s sure that she’s one of the only people who know of its existence. The only other person she can think of who knows about the cabin is probably back behind the walls of the Veterans Center.

It’s getting late and she’s getting tired. It’s been a long day of tracking down vinyl records for Wheaty, rescuing some civilians here and there. One of them was shockingly ungrateful, motherfucker tried to steal her ride when she was still looting bodies, who the fuck does that?

She pushes through the cabin door, resigned to crashing here for the night. Everything’s just as she left it, though there’s something about the wrinkles of the pillow and blanket on the bed that looks different—like they were shifted. Could just be her memory failing her, too many bliss bullets to the head.

 _“Dep, you there?”_ Eli’s voice crackles through her radio. Rook groans exhaustedly and grabs her radio. Whenever anyone calls her, it’s because they need something. She’s slotted into the sort of _hero_ role just fine, but it would be nice if she could just get a call that isn’t someone telling her about something that needs to be done.

Rook presses the talk button, walking into the kitchen area. “What’s up, Eli?”

_“Got some new intel on the whereabouts of some missing people, that and other work for ya. Could you stop by the Wolf’s Den?”_

She sighs and opens the cabinet she stashed her wine in, grabbing a bottle and placing it on the counter. “I was _just_ there a couple hours ago. Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

She puts the radio down, pulling out a knife while she waits for Eli’s reply. Rook stabs the knife tip into the cork and yanks it out with a _pop!_

 _“Yeah, sorry,”_ Eli answers, sounding sheepish but she knows he’s not at all sorry. _“Only got some of this info now.”_

Rook snorts and picks up the radio, taking one long swig of the cheap wine before she says, “I don’t know what to tell you, man. I can’t swing by right now. I’m uh,” she glances at the bottle in her hands, “currently preoccupied.”

_“Alright, alright. Just stop by soon.”_

“Will do.”

Rook walks over to the bed, lowering down to sit cross-legged on the floor next to it, leaning back against the frame. She lays her guns out on the floor, and her ammo next to it. With another couple swigs from the bottle, it being nearly half-empty now, she decides to take stock of the stuff she’s gathered today before she hits the hay.

By the three-quarter mark, she feels herself swaying. Just about drunk, not _too_ drunk, but the alcohol’s warm in her cheeks and belly.

She tries to guess what the Whitetails will be having her do tomorrow. The stress of her ever-growing to-do list in the county weighs heavy on her shoulders. With a sigh, she kicks her guns to the side and stands—stands a little _too_ quickly. The world spins for a second, and then she gets moving toward the kitchen again.

Not even done with the first bottle and already bringing out the second one? Maybe it’s a _get shitfaced alone_ kind of night. Some peace and quiet, a small stash of shitty wine, and the volume on her radio turned all the way down.

Rook quietly sorts her ammo, her explosives, and goes through some of the maps she picked up from the last three outposts she liberated. It gets darker in the cabin as night stretches on, and Rook places her flashlight on the ground next to her, too lazy to get up and turn on the lights. There’s no need for a fire—it’s nowhere near as cold as that stormy night was and the alcohol is doing its job to keep her warm.

Rook’s uncorking the next bottle with one of her throwing knives when the cabin door suddenly swings open. She acts on pure instinct, throwing the knife at the intruder before she can even register them. Though in her drunken state her aim is slightly off, as well as the force of her throwing arm. There’s also the fact that the cork is still stuck to the tip of the blade, rendering it near useless and off-balance.

Rook recognizes the intruder right when the knife soars through the air and hits Jacob Seed’s shoulder with a dull thump. The corked end bounces right off him and lands on the floor. The son of a bitch didn’t even flinch.

“What… the fuck are _you_ doing here?” Rook demands, trying to speak at a normal pace.

Jacob looks down at the corked throwing knife on the floor, then at where she sits on the ground clutching a bottle of wine. Displeasure shutters his face. “Deputy. Didn’t expect this.”

“I haven’t drunk enough to hallucinate,” Rook frowns. Without looking, she reaches for another throwing knife on the ground. “So what the fuck are you here for?”

When she wraps her fingers around the grip she moves quickly, picking it up at throwing it at him. Even if she misses his face because of her indisposed aim, the guy is _huge_ and blocking the whole doorway, she’s gonna hit something.

Jacob doesn’t flinch again, doesn’t dodge, just regards her with an unimpressed expression when the knife comes hurtling at him. It hits him right at the chest, but bounces right off him, no blood drawn. It topples to the ground, and Rook realizes it was an unlit stick of dynamite.

 _Dumbass,_ she thinks to herself.

“Just how drunk are you?” Jacob asks. She’s not _that_ drunk, but despite the unfeeling look on his face, she thinks he sounds amused.

Rook glares at him, carefully thinking of how to answer. Even in her haze, she notices that he looks like shit. Shittier than the last time she saw him. It’s the circles around his eyes, the bruised sunkeness—it looks way worse. Fucked up face more weathered than it usually is.

She makes a face. _Stop staring_.

“Not… not that drunk,” she says, then cringes at how drunk that sounds. “I can still kill you.”

“Y’sure about that?” he says, glancing pointedly at her last two attempts at his feet. He nudges the stick of dynamite aside with the tip of his boot and steps further into the cabin, shutting the door behind him.

“I’m _sure_.”

Jacob takes another step closer and squats down, resting his elbows on his knees as he looks at her with curious eyes. He shrugs his obnoxious red rifle off his shoulder and extends it out, using it to sweep her weapons scattered on the floor away, just out of arm’s reach.

“So you’re the one who’s been leaving supplies here,” he muses.

“Seriously, why are you here?” Rook asks again. She frowns, setting the wine bottle down on the wooden floor. “Wait… you’ve been back here since the storm? The hell are you coming back to this shitty cabin for?”

“That’s a lotta questions,” Jacob says, stroking his beard. “If I answer ‘em, you gotta trade some answers with me. It ain’t fair if you ask all the questions.”

“Oh, so you’re gonna play it like that?” Rook narrows her eyes and leans back—leans back too far that she bumps her head on the bedpost behind her. She recovers quickly, swaying when she leans forward and picks up the wine bottle and extends it out to Jacob. “Then if we’re playing twenty questions, you have to drink too.”

The stoic expression on Jacob’s face twitches with irritation. “I didn’t say twenty ques—”

 _“Drink_ , and you get the first question.” This is peer pressure, she’s not proud of it, but sometimes you have to force your enemies into drinking games with you. In the back of her head, she knows her logic isn’t sound, but all she can think about is the fact that it’s dangerous that he’s sober and she’s not, and the only way to fix that is to make him drink the shitty wine too.

The bottle wavers in Rook’s hand, her arm getting tired while she waits for Jacob to take it from her. She blinks at him, trying to figure out what he’s thinking. Just when Rook thinks he’s gonna get up and leave ( _which would also be a solution to this situation_ ), he shifts in place to sit properly on the floor, knees up, fuckin’ _manspreading_ , and takes the bottle from her hand.

He drops his rifle and his pack to the ground next to him, within reach, and takes a long swig of the bottle. And Rook, the fucking drunk idiot she is, can’t help but stare at the column of his throat move with every gulp.

“Whoa slow down there,” she laughs nervously, tearing her eyes away from him and looking down at the floor. “A sip would’ve been enough for a question.”

“Figured you’d want even ground,” Jacob says, putting the bottle down and wiping his mouth. “Gotta catch up to ya somehow.”

 _True._ “Okay, so, you drank. Now you get the first question.”

“How drunk are you?”

Rook holds her hands in front of her, facing her palms at each other to shape a space between her hands. “This much,” she says, sneering when he rolls his eyes. “ _Drunk_ , Seed. What the fuck kind of a question is that?”

Jacob shrugs, strangely casual for one of the most dangerous people in the county. “Fair.”

“My turn.” Rook scoots forward slightly and picks up the bottle by Jacob, taking another sip. God, Jacob drained almost half of it when he drank, fucking greedy bastard. “What the fuck are you doing here? Don’t you have, like, people to brainwash?”

“Which question d’you want me to answer?”

Rook shoots him a deadpan look.

“I trust that I can step away from time to time,” Jacob shrugs. “Don’t need to fuckin’ hold hands with my Chosen to make them do their jobs. So, no, I don’t have people to _‘brainwash’_.”

“You keep avoiding the real question,” Rook scowls. “Top secret cult shit or something?”

Jacob leans forward and plucks the bottle from her hands, carefully avoiding brushing their fingers. “It’s not your turn anymore for a question. Should’a been specific.” He shifts on the floor, turning so that he can lean back against the side of the bed. After another chug from the bottle, he exhales heavily from the intake, and leans to the side, closer to Rook. He looks her directly in the eye, scrutinizing her as he asks, “Where’s the Wolf’s Den?”

She snorts. “Nice try.”

“You have to answer. With the truth,” he says firmly. “That’s the point of _your_ game, isn’t it?”

 _He’s got me there._ Rook makes a pinched expression. “It’s somewhere in the Whitetail Mountains. A certain distance from your hotel of fucked up shit, a certain distance from your Veterans Center, a certain distance from some trees and grass and rocks. That’s where it is.”

Rook reaches for the wine, but Jacob doesn’t let go of the bottle. He holds the bottle close in a vice grip, barely budging when she tries to yank the bottle her way. His icy blue eyes narrow, upper lip curling with annoyance.

“I answered your question. I didn’t lie. Now stop hogging my shitty wine,” she growls, tugging on the top of the bottle once again. Rook fights back the urge to shrink under Jacob’s close gaze and paws around the bottle with her other hand until she finds the rough skin of his hand. She tugs at his grip, grabbing his fingers and trying to pry them off.

Jacob doesn’t move for a moment, then snaps like something was delayed. He immediately lets go of the bottle and jerks away from her, inhaling sharply. Rook huffs and sways back with the bottle, swaying _too much_ , and taking a moment to steady herself. She raises the bottle to her lips and—empty.

“Shit,” she grumbles, setting the bottle down clumsily. The bottle wobbles as it’s off-balance on the floor, and ends up falling to its side and rolling away.

 _Greedy asshole drank it all._ Rook staggers to her feet and heads towards the kitchen space, bumping into the counter when she tries to walk around it. She opens up the cabinet and grabs the last bottle, forgetting to shut the cabinet door when she walks back to her nemesis. When she sits back down on the ground, she suddenly becomes keenly aware of just how drunk she is when she loses her balance for a millisecond and ends up sitting too close to Jacob. _Maybe she should stop drinking._ If she decided to lean just the slightest to the left, they would be brushing arms.

Rook looks down at the wine bottle in her hands and completely forgets what she was thinking of before. _Knife, where’s my knife?_ She pats around on the floor until she realizes Jacob swept her weapons away, and she’s about to get up and fetch one of her knives when Jacob seizes the bottle from her hands.

“Hey!”

“Not gonna let ya near any sharp objects in your sorry state,” Jacob says, and if Rook was listening properly she would’ve heard the slight slur of his words. He brandishes his own knife and stabs the tip into the cork, popping the cork free. He carelessly tosses the cork across the room and tips the bottle to his lips, draining a good quarter of it before he puts it down. “It’s fuckin’ sad.”

“Just give me my damn _wine_ ,” she sneers, snatching the bottle and taking a swig of it. “Question time. Why… why’re you playing along with my dumb drinking game? You could have just left… or you could have just knocked me out and stole all of my wine if you wanted to drink.”

“Shit’s contraband in the Project. Folks still sneak some of it here and there, no one _really_ cares, but it’s been a good while for me. Gotta set an _example_ ,” he answers, frowning off into the wall straight ahead. “And I wanted t’see if you’d be a talkative drunk—spill all those Whitetail Militia secrets so I don’t hav’ta do a damn thing.”

“Ha, can’t tell you that,” Rook says with a yawn. “Eli doesn’t ever tell me shit until _right_ before shit needs to be done.”

Jacob’s brow twitches, and he holds out his hand expectantly. Rook passes him the bottle. He drains the bottle to about half this time. He grinds his jaw for a moment, probably thinking of his next question.

“What’s your name?”

Rook scowls at that. There’s a reason she just lets people call her _Deputy_. Her name doesn’t have a growing body count to it, but _Dep_ does, and there’s no point being reminded of it. Rook chews on the inside of her cheek, a sour expression on her face, and she tells him her name.

Jacob repeats it slowly, testing it on his tongue.

She snatches the bottle from him and drinks. She’s gonna ask it _right_ this time. “Why are you here?”

He takes the bottle back from her, Rook’s eyes drift down to his throat as he takes big gulps of the wine. There’s a smudge of dried blood near the base of his neck, there’s no wound—it’s not his own blood. Rook wonders what poor soul got stuck on his bad side today.

“Testing a theory,” Jacob says after a considerable pause, resting his elbows on his bent knees and dangling the near-empty bottle in one hand. He speaks again, the expression on his face contorting as if the words left his mouth out of their own volition. “Been sleeping here.”

_What the fuck does that even mean?_

“Why?” she asks, sticking her hand out for the bottle. “What’re you doing that for?”

Jacob doesn’t pass her the bottle, nor does he answer. He just glares at the spot her flashlight shines into the wall, swallowing hard.

After another excruciating moment of the weird waves of silence and tension Jacob’s giving off, Rook reaches to grab the bottle from him. She must have spooked him out of his contemplation—maybe he even forgot she was there—because when her hand reaches around him and nears the bottle in his far hand, his other darts out and catches her wrist. A startled gasp escapes Rook, and her other hand reflexively grabs his arm, squeezing lightly at the scarred skin.

Jacob lets go of her wrist almost instantly, but Rook doesn’t release him. Her eyes are trained down at the splotched scars amassing his arm, head tipped down as she closely inspects them. She doesn’t even think she can lift her head up anymore, heaviness from the wine finally totaling on her.

“Do they hurt?” she asks softly, the words coming out of her mouth before she can even think that he might try to hurt her for asking.

Jacob doesn’t answer, he only lifts the wine bottle to his lips, tipping it up for another long swig. The muscles in Jacob’s arm tense, as does the rest of him when she slides her hand down to his wrist and grazes the top of his arm with her other hand, but he doesn’t fight her off. His breath comes out shaky when she traces up the roughened skin of his arm with her fingertips.

Rook wills her heavy head up, her hand moving up to rest on his shoulder to steady herself. She looks at his profile, blatantly staring at the mottled skin there. A muscle jumps in his jaw as he keeps his glare trained on the wall.

Slowly, against her better judgement, Rook reaches up to touch his cheek.

Jacob flinches at the touch but doesn’t back away. He shudders when she drags her fingers over the textured skin of his cheekbone, pressing her palm flat against the side of his face. The way he reacts to the touch, the closeness, she thinks, _when was the last time someone touched you like this?_

“Not your turn,” Jacob says quietly, hoarsely. She must have said that out loud.

Her eyes flutter shut for a moment, and Rook feels herself sway forward. She opens her eyes with a great effort and sees that Jacob’s looking at her now. Head tilted ever so slightly against the palm of her hand, cold eyes watching her intently, hooded and heavy from the wine. His expression is unreadable.

“Ask a question, then,” Rook murmurs, stifling the outrageous urge to kiss him.

Jacob’s lips part to say something, and Rook faintly registers the smell of alcohol in his breath—the smell of it in her breath as well. Her head is so, so heavy. She lets her eyes close—just for a moment—and feels her head fall forward. Down, down, down, her forehead scraping against the coarse hair of Jacob’s beard until her face crashes into something warm and solid.

 

-

 

Rook’s head is fucking _hammering_. Rook shifts on the floor, curling into the warm, comfortable lump she’s lying on. Her throat is parched and just the thought of entering full consciousness and opening her eyes has her head aching even worse.

The lump underneath her begins to move, and she merely groans and the jostle of movement. _Waking up—bad. Dying in sleep—good._ Her brain finally registers that the lump underneath her is a body when the body goes still, then bolts up. Rook is forced off, rolling off and hitting the ground hard when the warm body moves away from her.

Something is muttered, a hushed string of curses, and though it’s quiet it’s so _loud_ that Rook lets out a suffering croak and curls into the warm spot on the floor where the other body once was, her hands reaching blindly to press against her face.

She starts to wake properly now, opening her eyes slowly then closing them again. There’s the sound of shuffling around her, footsteps briskly hitting the creaking floorboards and a clatter of objects—weapons. Just when Rook remembers that it was _Jacob Seed_ in the cabin with her, the hinges of the door whine as it swings open and slams shut.

Rook startles at the slam of the door, at the realization of just who it is fleeing the cabin, and pushes herself up off the floor fast with wide eyes. She doesn’t manage to sit up-right—when she sees the closed door rattle and hears hasty footsteps growing distant, she bumps her head _hard_ on the bedpost.

Her head fucking _screams_ at her and Rook collapses back onto the hard ground with a groan. _Stupid fucking wine._

She only hopes Jacob Seed is having an equally shitty hangover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy turkey day here are more idiots


	3. Chapter 3

Rook never returns to the cabin. Not when she knows now that Jacob frequents the place—if he still does.

Whenever she goes back to the cabin, it seems that she always ends up in some kind of precarious situation with the oldest Seed. Two’s a coincidence, and three’s a pattern—if that’s true, she definitely doesn’t wanna go back a third time and seal them into some kind of _routine_. Especially if the routine is going to become Rook embarrassing herself and drunkenly thinking about _kissing_. Fucking Christ.

Though, sadly, there are some routines with the Seeds that she just can’t avoid. Especially with Jacob Seed. Sure, all of the Seeds are _constantly_ kidnapping her ( _there are other people in this county, you know!_ ), but the heart of Jacob’s work revolves around routine. Culling the herd. What was it Staci told her the night he helped her escape the Compound?

_‘One, two, three, one, two, three—then he’s got you. It becomes second nature. Routine.’_

Yeah, Rook’s had enough of Jacob’s routines. She’s not gonna add the cabin to that list.

It’s been nearly two weeks since the _last_ cabin incident. Rook spent most of her time since then in the Henbane or Holland Valley. She could deal with the other Seeds—but with all the mistakes Rook has made around Jacob, she thought it would be a good idea to just… stay out of range for a while.

Apparently, two weeks is too long a while. The Whitetails have been antsy without Rook around to do their bidding. Rook feels a little guilty, knowing that there are people who need her help in the mountain region and she’s just trying to avoid Jacob Seed like the damn plague.

Guilt is a stupid fucking thing. And so is obligation. Because it makes her head back to the Whitetail Region. Because Eli and Tammy radio her the second she crosses the boundary. Because before Rook can even tell them to give her just one second to breathe, an arrow whistles through the air and lodges itself into her thigh.

 _“Dep, hey, you there?”_ Tammy says from the radio, voice echoed and warbled by the Bliss taking its effect on Rook. _“… Dep?”_

Rook scowls as she falls to her knees on the asphalt, going numb. Motherfucking _routine_.

 

-

 

Rook is only in the cages for a day before Staci’s unlocking the door in the dead of night. He’s not here to help her escape, no, not this time. Probably never again after last time. She’s honestly surprised to see him out and about, even more skittish than before, so he’s most likely been punished for his defiance. She thought Jacob would have done worse to him, but she’s glad to see that Staci isn’t even _more_ fucked up as punishment for helping her escape.

Rook’s supposed to be helping _him_ escape, dammit. Not the other way around.

But this time, Staci doesn’t open the cage door wide and tell her to haul ass out of here. This time he’s most likely on orders, judging by the cuffs and sack hood bunched in his hand. Rook takes a moment to see if he’s been harmed—he doesn’t look anymore bruised and scraped than when she last saw him, so at least there’s that.

“Sorry, Rookie,” Staci says gruffly, shoulders twitching. He holds out the handcuffs. “You gotta come with me. I-I can’t get you out this time.”

“It’s alright, Stace,” Rook mumbles as she stands and holds out her hands. No point in fighting, it would probably just make things worse for her situation. It would probably make things worse for Staci too.

Staci mutters another apology as he puts the cuffs on, snug on her wrists. Then baggy black fabric of the sack hood is thrown over her head, the only thing she sees is the dark fabric centimeters away from her face.

A hand rests on her shoulder—Staci is urging her out of the cage. Rook follows, carefully minding her blind steps.

“What’s the hood for?” Rook asks, leaning into the direction Staci guides her through the Compound.

“Taking you somewhere different than the trials. I… I don’t think you’re gonna see the box, to be honest.”

_Well, that’s one silver lining._

“Am I… gonna see some food? Like, ah, stuff that isn’t _mystery meat?”_

Staci snorts, no contempt or humor behind it. Just… a sound from someone who can’t say or do anything else.

Rook is guided up some stairs. She can tell she’s indoors now—from the change in the air to the slight echo of each step. Is Pratt taking her to Jacob’s new murder room or something? Or some interrogation room for information on the Whitetails? Is it something _worse_ than the cages?

“Seriously, Staci, where are you taking me?” she asks nervously, trying to shrug off Staci’s hand on her shoulder.

The hand only tightens in what’s a sad excuse for an assuring squeeze. “You gotta stay quiet, Rook. And you know I can’t tell you that. I can’t tell you anything.”

Rook sighs, grumbling curses under the stuffy hood. Finally, Pratt pulls her back slightly, signaling for her to stop walking. They come to a halt in front of a door, which Rook can only tell because Staci’s hand leaves her as he audibly twists a doorknob.

A small gust of air breezes past when the door swings out, like the room’s got a window cracked open. Staci nudges her along, directing her about ten feet forward before he halts her again. The tip of her boot bumps into something soft on the floor.

Staci presses two hands on her shoulders, pushing her down. Rook starts to panic.

“Pratt, seriously, what the fuck—”

“Just sit.” Rook gives in and lets Pratt push her down until she’s sitting on something cushioned. “Okay. Now just—just wait here, okay? Don’t get up or try to walk around, you might crash into something and hurt yourself. Just—just uh, stay here. And don’t take off the hood. You’ll be in trouble if you’re caught without it.”

Rook feels around the cushioned surface, shifting until she’s made out that this is some kind of narrow cot pushed against a wall. She hears footsteps—Staci’s _leaving_.

“Wait! You’re just gonna leave me here?” Rook calls out in the direction they both came from. Staci’s footsteps stop. “Pratt— _Staci_. Come on, at least tell me where I am. Take this fucking bag off my head.”

A nervous silence. Then, “I… I can’t. I’m sorry. But—but I think you’ll be okay? My orders were pretty vague, I really don’t know why you have to be here, Rook. But, uh, I don’t think you have to worry about anything… a-anything _bad_ , like _really_ bad, happening. That’s not—that’s not his style.”

“Not his— _what the fuck?”_ Rook almost shrieks. “Staci, you’re really fucking scaring me right now.”

“Just.” Staci makes an anxious noise. “If—if shit happens. Like, _bad_ shit, gross shit. Just give me a shout. I don’t know what I’ll be able to do, but I’ll try to do something. But I don’t think that’s what he’s planning, I uh,” he barks out a desperate, mirthless chuckle, “I th-think I would’ve offed myself a long time ago if shit was that bad around here.”

“Stac—”

“I gotta go, Rook. I—just. Just stay here, okay? I’ll try to find out what’s going on.”

Then there’s the sound of the door softly closing.

Rook flops onto her back, the cot rough and scratchy beneath her. This is bad.

 

-

 

Staci said to keep the hood on, so of course Rook isn’t going to do that.

She yanks it off with her cuffed hands a few minutes after Staci leaves. She can’t do anything else in her state, but she’ll at least map out the room before she puts the damn hood back on. She leans against the wall as her eyes case the room—no weapons in sight. She doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

At first, she thinks it’s some kind of office—a table and shelf pushed against the wall on one side of the room, a couple cabinets ( _maybe even a dresser?_ ) pushed against the other wall, another door aside from the one she came in from ( _a bathroom?_ ), and a table in the center of the room with maps scattered about. Maps tracking the Wolf’s Den. There’s even a mug on the table, so maybe someone’s been here recently.

What tells Rook that this _isn’t_ an office is the bed by the wall across Rook’s shitty cot. A real bed with pillows and everything, double-sized from the looks of it. So this is most likely somebody’s bedroom—but whose?

She has a hunch, an awful one that she doesn’t even want to consider.

Rook begrudgingly puts the hood back on after committing the room’s layout to memory. She can try to escape—but really, what’s the point of it when she still has these damn handcuffs on?

About an hour passes, Rook doesn’t even know what time it is, and someone finally enters the room. She’s almost asleep when she hears the door open, quiet footsteps walking through. Rook sits up fast, looking in the direction of the sound even though she can’t see anything.

“Pratt?” she asks quietly, and when she gets no answer she tries again, a little louder, “Staci? That you? Did you find out why I’m in this fucking room?”

Still no answer, but she thinks she hears the person sigh. Exasperated, or tired, or both. The footsteps resume as the person walks across the room, followed by the sound of mattress springs whining under sudden weight.

“Who are you?” Rook demands, not daring to move from her cot. She’s at a major disadvantage—one wrong move and whoever this person is might shoot her the instant she moves from her invisible prison. “Why am I _here?”_

Another sigh. The sound of fabric rustling—the person shifting on the bed, getting comfortable.

“Are you gonna kill me?” she asks, trying again into the darkness. “If you are, cut the shit and just get it over with already.”

She doesn’t know why she’s trying to provoke the person, it’s not like she’d be able to fight them in her cuffed and hooded state. Sure, she’ll try to anyway, could remove the hood and probably get some good kicks in, but she knows she’d eventually lose.

The person doesn’t answer again. No sigh either. Just silence.

Rook huffs, annoyed, and rests back down into her uncomfortable-but-most-comfortable-position-possible position on the cot. She closes her eyes, trying to get some sleep herself, already dreading the crick in her neck she’ll feel when she wakes up.

 

-

 

Rook wakes to a shout.

Her eyes snap open, blinking rapidly when all she sees is darkness around her. _Right. The fucking hood._ She shimmies up the cot, sitting up.

Whoever it is across the room—they’re not sleeping anymore. They’re no longer shouting either. It sounds like they’re struggling. Labored breaths and cries of _stop it don’t_ and _leave them alone_. Rook listens carefully and doesn’t hear anyone else in the room besides them two, so there’s no one this person could be talking to. _Nightmares?_

Rook’s stomach drops as she continues listening—not at the sounds of struggle which is already something chilling on its own, but at the _voice_. Fuck, she recognizes it. She knew, she really did know deep down who it was in the room, but it was nice not having to address that reality during the silence.

To make her realization worse, she’s pretty sure Jacob’s woken from his nightmare. His breathing slows down, no longer panicked, desperate breaths, but still heavy and heaving. The bed creaks and she hears the sound of him crossing the room. Not the sound of heavy boots, but soft and hasty footsteps, he’s probably still wearing socks.

The breathing gets closer, and now Rook is a hundred percent _sure_ its Jacob when she hears the clinking of dog tags. She backs up on the cot until her back is pressed against the wall. _Why is he coming over here why is coming over here why is he coming over here._

The hood is yanked off her head and tossed to the side. Rook blinks stars, eyes readjusting to seeing things that _aren’t_ black fabric—a dark room lit only by moonlight pouring from the windows, Jacob, looking like he wants to see her head on a pike. Two strong hands clamp down on her arms and shake her.

“You’re fuckin’ _useless_ ,” Jacob snarls in her face. _“Why isn’t it fucking working?”_

Rook leans back as far as she can in his vice grip. Jacob looks feral—grey t-shirt damp with sweat, hair messy and sticking up on one side, eyes bloodshot and wide, teeth grit in a snarl that makes the lines on his face more pronounced. The dark, bruising circles around his eyes are even worse—how long has he been going without real sleep?

Rook can’t help the shocked, slightly horrified expression twisting her face. It all happened so fast—one moment she was in darkness, merely guessing that Jacob was here, and suddenly the next moment he’s there and snarling right at her, bruising her upper arms with his grip.

“I—what— _useless?”_ she stammers, his words finally registering in her head. “What the fuck—why am I here?”

Jacob’s roar of frustration is a flash of teeth, and suddenly one hand leaves her arm to close around her neck, shoving her head back against the wall. Rook’s startled gasp is cut off when the hand around her throat begins to _squeeze_. Jacob kneels in front of her, still hovering about a foot above her with his taller stature, and he regards her with a cold, vicious expression. “You don’t get to ask questions. Not when—” he falters for a moment, then, “Fuckin’ waste of my time.”

Rook feels the back of her head begin to bruise, along with her neck. He won’t kill her, she’s pretty sure about that. It’s clear that aside from… whatever the fuck it is going on here, he still needs her for the trials, so she decides to push her luck. Rook tries to push him back, hands shoving and hitting his chest, the handcuffs biting into her wrists. “Get off me! Fuck you, tell me what’s going on! How can I be fucking _‘useless’_ when I don’t even know why I’m here?”

Jacob’s hand squeezes and squeezes, right until Rook’s vision starts to black out—and then he roughly lets go of her, shoving her aside as he draws back and rocks off his knees to sit on the ground. Rook coughs violently, taking a moment to suck in lungfuls of air. Then she rights herself, cuffs clinking as she drags herself off the ground and sits up straight again.

She tilts her head up as she leans back against the wall, wincing slightly at the bruise blossoming in the back of her head. Gaze hard set into a glare, she tries again, voice hoarse from her windpipe being crushed. “What the _fuck_ is going on?”

Jacob runs a hand down his scarred face—there’s still an anger to him, but the frustrated _rage_ from just now has seemed to wash away, replaced by an aging weariness. It’s a strange sight, seeing big bad Jacob Seed looking somewhat _vulnerable_.

She spots a key around his neck, dangling right next to the dog tags. It’s not the bunker key, no, but it’s the next best thing—it looks like keys to a pair of handcuffs, probably _her_ handcuffs. He’s apparently been thrown off-guard by his recent night terror—by his outburst—Rook can probably try to fight him for the key. He’s not even looking at her right now, his eyes set to the ground between them. She could try to lunge at him, strangle him with the chain of her handcuffs, then take the key when he’s out—or better yet, dead.

But.

But she doesn’t.

For some fucking reason, she doesn’t move a muscle. She just sits there, statuesque, watching the rise and fall of Jacob’s broad shoulders as she waits for him to explain himself. _If_ he explains himself.

_Kill him, kill him, kill him. Fucking move. Do something._

“Thought it was the cabin,” Jacob finally says, his voice sanded down to a rasp.

 _Or do nothing. Way to go, dumbass._ Rook doesn’t move a muscle as she watches him, gaze wary.

Jacob props up one knee and rests his elbow on it, moving like his arm weighs a million pounds. His hand bunches into a fist, then unfurls and repeats the motion, fidgety. “I don’t sleep much. Don’t sleep _well_ , if ya haven’t already noticed.”

He pauses again, not meeting Rook’s gaze. The silence is heavy, stifling, and Rook can’t bear it, so she throws more pointless questions into the wind. Her voice is still a little hoarse. “You said… I remember you saying the last time in the cabin that you were sleeping there. So. Solution found, right? What the hell does this have to do with me?”

Jacob glares weakly at her, knuckles blanching to white. “It wasn’t the cabin. Went back for a good part of two weeks, barely got three hours of sleep in total. Then _you_ showed up too drunk to walk straight—”

“Hey, you participated—”

“It was reckless, could’ve killed you right there and you wouldn’t have even noticed.”

“But you didn’t.”

Jacob scoffs, the contempt behind it withered down by his own exhaustion. “Had a suspicion that it might’ve been you.” _What the fuck._ “Bullshit, obviously, but you had me fooled. Drinking doesn’t work for me the way it works for some folks. If it did, I’d be a fuckin’ alcoholic by now. It sometimes— _sometimes_ —helps me, but most of the time it just makes shit worse in my head.”

“But you slept the whole night that time—both times—”

“Both times that you were there, hanging onto me like a fuckin’ monkey.”

Rook’s face burns at that. She sends another withering glare his way, moving to cross her arms only for the short chain of the cuffs to stop her. “So… so you thought I was helping somehow… and that’s why you sent your hunters after me this time?”

Jacob snorts derisively, shaking his head. “My hunters still hunt you for the trials. That’s it. S’only when I heard that they caught you, I decided to test the theory again. Didn’t fucking work.”

Rook frowns in confusion, then anger. _Un-fucking-believable._ “You needed me around—not for your trials, but for a sleepover, and you fucking _kidnapped_ me for that? Had Pratt cuff me and throw a stuffy, fucking _itchy_ hood over my head—for _this?”_

Jacob’s fists clench again, posture rigid. “Said I _didn’t_ send my hunters after you for this—"

“Oh, I _heard_ you, asshole. But fucking look where we are now! You basically _did_ kidnap me just for—”

“Would you have come if I said _pretty please?”_ Jacob sneers. Rook balks at that, because no, she wouldn’t have—probably wouldn’t have. “Exactly. Didn’t think so, Deputy.”

Another silence envelops them, and the gears in Rook’s head are working too fast for her to process. She’s become his experiment in more ways than one now—and for some fucking reason, despite the treatment she’s gotten from _The Jacob Seed Experience™_ , she finds that she’s not as bothered by it as she thought. Sure, Rook’s fucking pissed about the kidnapping, the fucking hood and handcuffs— _god,_ did he think he could just get away with that if it worked? Keep her in the dark the rest of her life in a dusty corner of his room while he sleeps soundly? _Seriously?_

Yeah, all of this is fucking ridiculous, another fucking disturbing display of Jacob’s outlook of the world, of how to approach things. She’s pissed about the situation… but looking at the big picture, she doesn’t quite know how she feels.

Jacob Seed, monster of the fucking mountains, _apparently_ needs her for sleep.

But he doesn’t—it didn’t work. Unless. _Unless._

“Both of the times I was with you—I wasn’t just in the room with you…” Rook says slowly, as if she’s figuring out the words just as they tumble from her mouth. _This is a bad, bad idea._ “Maybe it didn’t work because I was all the way here,” she drops her gaze to the floor and twists her face into a pinched expression, wondering why the fuck she’s even trying to help. “Maybe it only works when I’m—if I’m next to you. Shit, _with_ you.”

She bites down on her tongue after saying that, scared of what other dumb shit might come out of her mouth if she keeps talking. Jacob doesn’t say anything, and Rook doesn’t drag her gaze up to meet his eyes, but she can feel him looking at her. Burning a damn hole through her skull.

Rook waits and waits for a reply, a laugh, a knife to her throat for even _suggesting_ such a thing. But instead, everything is quiet, suffocatingly so, as if the air around them is a living, shuddering creature leeching all that’s left to breathe. Jacob still doesn’t say a damn thing. Rook risks a glance at him, only to see that he’s facing away, eyes darting around as he works his jaw, looking as troubled and disgruntled as ever.

“Okay,” Rook starts, desperate to break the silence. She stands, the sudden movement causing Jacob’s gaze to snap back to her. “Forget I suggested that. I’ll just, uh, go back to my cage then. No need to get up, I’ll go find Pratt to walk me back.”

She’s halfway to the door when Jacob says, “Wait.”

Rook stops. She turns slowly on her heels. Jacob’s kneeling now—halfway to standing up himself—he’s frowning, mouth set into a grim line as he bites back words. Rook could be misreading the situation entirely, but when she meets the stare of sharp blue eyes, she thinks he might have meant _stay._ Stay, don’t leave.

She makes her way toward Jacob, and he sinks down a bit where he kneels, resting the back of his thighs on his heels. He still doesn’t say anything when she stops in front of him, but he tenses when she gets closer, lowering herself down to kneel on the floor just as he is.

Rook raises her cuffed wrists and slowly reaches for his chest—

Jacob catches one of her wrists, eyes narrowed. “The hell do you think you’re doing?”

She pushes against Jacob's bruising grip, reaching further and further until her fingers graze along the damp fabric of Jacob's grey shirt. His hand tightens around her wrist, but he doesn’t pull her away. Rook trails along the thin line of black hanging from his neck, brushing past the dog tag chain and following along the string until she curls her fingers around the base of a key.

Rook holds up the small key between them, making her movements slow and deliberate to show she’s not trying for some kind of attack.

A brief look is shared between them before Rook drops her gaze back to the key. Jacob lets go of her wrist, the warmth of his hand disappearing from her skin the instant his hand falls back down to his side. She tugs the key closer to her wrists, unintentionally tugging Jacob closer as well.

He’s practically looming over her now—as the key clicks into the handcuffs, Rook is keenly aware of his beard hovering just above her eyes, right in her peripheral. The air between Rook’s brows and the dark red hair in front of her tickles with the sensation of an almost-touch. She twists the key, listening only to the soft, staggered breaths coming from Jacob. With a couple of clicks, she unlocks the cuffs, and the sound of them dropping to the ground is strikingly loud in the quiet of Jacob’s room.

 _What now?_ Rook doesn’t even know, but before her common sense can berate her—before any kind of survival instinct can kick in—she’s closing her eyes and tugging the key down to make a big mistake. This tug of the necklace is stronger than the one before, and she’s surprised that Jacob actually follows the force of the tug down. It’s brief, nothing but a feather-light graze, but the kiss she presses to Jacob’s dry lips surprises the both of them.

Rook pulls back with wide eyes. What the fuck is she doing? The intensity of Jacob’s eyes makes Rook want to flee, want to sprint out of the room at full speed the same way she fled the cabin during the storm. But all she does is blink back at Jacob like a deer in headlights, trying to figure out why she won’t _move_. She should run. She _should_ , because she’s pretty sure Jacob’s gonna fucking kill her now.

How the hell has she lived this long? Kissing your enemy is _not_ an example of self-preservation. She doesn’t even have that cheap, shitty wine to blame for this.

Jacob looms over her, even though she’s let go of the key around his neck he’s still leaning _too close_. His voice comes out low, scratched out as his face walls up. “Why… did you do that?”

Rook bites the inside of her cheek. “I don’t know.”

Jacob frowns hard, jaw tensing. Rook can’t read whatever’s going on in his head—despite the frown, his expression is so shuttered that she can’t tell if he’s pissed or _absolutely pissed_. Or something else.

He ducks down fast, Rook barely registering that _this is happening_ before Jacob presses his lips onto hers. _Something else._

Rook’s hands fly up, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him closer, those alarm sirens sounding off in the back of her head fading out when he opens his mouth to her. Rook nips at his lower lip and delves into his mouth with her tongue, earning herself a punched-out groan from Jacob that she’s definitely committing to memory.

They end up swaying back and forth—Jacob kissing her hard, almost tilting her backwards, and Rook kissing back just as forcefully, teeth clashing as she surges forward and hooks her arms up around his neck. Once they find a rhythm, Jacob’s hands drift to the back of her thighs and drags her towards him. He’s sunk further down onto the floor, no longer kneeling high, but shins pressed into the cold tile as he pulls Rook into his lap.

It’s almost ridiculous how much she wants this—how she didn’t _know_ she wanted this, and now she’s full-on straddling Jacob, locking her legs around his waist as warm hands burn through her jeans. Jacob’s tongue roams deep in her mouth, and Rook sighs into it, her hands gliding from his neck to cup his face. She doesn’t quite remember what the skin of his face felt like from the night she drunkenly invaded his personal space, but the scrape of his scars—softer than she’d imagined—adds another sensation to the act of furiously making out with Jacob Seed.

Jacob’s kisses are all-consuming, fucking _starved_. Rook doesn’t think she’s ever been kissed like this. His hands leave her thighs and roam upwards, slipping underneath her shirt. She shivers at the feel of his calloused skin pressing into the small of her back, setting her skin on fire. Rook moans into his mouth, shimmying even closer, pressed flush against him. His hand ghosts over her bra strap and he growls low in his throat, Rook can feel the vibration of it in his chest.

Then he suddenly stops, tearing his mouth away from hers. Before Rook can protest, his hands leave her shirt and shove her back by the shoulders. The force of the push has Rook sliding gracelessly off his lap with a small yelp, landing on the cold floor with her hands reaching behind to stop her from fully falling backwards and hitting her head.

Jacob scoots back, away from her, breathing heavily. The frustrated, borderline wild look is back on his face, brow twitching. Rook regards him warily, picking herself up off the floor and sitting up properly again.

“That’s not—” Jacob grates out, pausing distractedly when his eyes snap down to where Rook smacks her swollen lips. He grunts and stands, dragging his eyes away from her. “This isn’t what I brought you here for.”

Rook pushes loose strands of hair out of her face and stands. Unsure of what to do with herself, she crosses her arms to stop herself from fidgeting. “Do you… do you want me to leave?”

Jacob looks at her sharply, teeth grit. “No.”

Rook looks out the window. It’s still dark outside. She doesn’t see a clock anywhere in the room, but it doesn’t look like the night’s anywhere near sunrise yet. “Do you wanna try to sleep? I think we can clock a few hours in.”

Jacob stiffens. “We?”

Rook bites her tongue and turns towards the door, frowning. “Okay, I’ll go—”

Jacob catches her arm and spins her around. _When did he get that close? Quiet bastard._ “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” She glares up at him, tired of the vague responses.

The _baggage_ this guy has to not even be able to ask for what he wants. It could just be a masculinity thing, taking what you want without asking or having to explain yourself, but something tells Rook this doesn’t quite stem from that. Sure, that’s probably a big part of it, but she’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to appear _weak_. Too fucking bad, he’s human and she’s not a damn mind-reader.

“Just,” Jacob sighs exasperatedly, grinding his teeth. “Stay here.”

Rook looks at the bags under his eyes, the exhaustion softening his hard edges. She’ll stay. She doesn’t fucking know why ( _it’s the kissing, the kissing was annoyingly good_ ), but she wants to. “Ask me properly.”

His grip tightens on her arm. “You’re not in any position t’make demands.”

“Am I?” She scowls, wresting her arm out of his hold. “Because I don’t _need_ you for a full eight hours of sleep. I don’t know why I’m fucking helping you, but if I’m gonna do it, you’re gonna cut the shit for one fucking minute and just _ask_. You know, like a _person_.”

“I don’t need—”

“You _do_ , why would you fucking drag me up here if you had even the tiniest of doubts? It’s not fucking _weak_ to need someone.” Rook throws her hands in the air, then starts towards the door again. “I’m gonna take my chances escaping right now if you don’t drop this emotionally stunted bullshit. Good luck with your fucking power naps.”

Jacob doesn’t stop her when she opens the door. Despite how much she wants to slam the door, she closes it quietly behind her, ignoring the weird pang in her chest.

Surprisingly, there aren’t any guards around. Not on the floor with Jacob’s room, at least. Rook considers climbing out the window, but that’s risky when she doesn’t have her grapple. She needs her gear. She has to find weapons, hopefully, her own weapons, and then sneak the fuck out of here. Maybe Staci would know where her stuff is, but she has no idea where Staci is.

She decides to take the stairs, if she bumps into any guards, well, she’ll find a way to handle that.

Rook makes it down two flights before she hears anything. Two guards chatting idly at the end of the hallway. The staircase ends here, and from a risky peek out the stairwell wall she sees that they’re blocking the only exit. _Fuck._ They’re both heavily armed too, but she’s fought against worse odds and emerged victorious, this’ll be cake. Really bad cake.

Rook takes a minute to psyche herself for the upcoming fight, rolling her shoulders back. Just as she starts her mental countdown to leap out of the dark stairwell, someone grabs her from behind. Rook stifles back a cry of surprise, doing her best to wrestle out of her attacker’s grip as quietly as she can. Strangely, her attacker isn’t calling for help, isn’t alerting anyone.

She’s able to free one arm from her grappled state and knocks her elbow back into the attacker’s ribs. There’s a quiet, slightly pained grunt when she hits, but no other sound. It’s when she looks down to pry the arms off her midsection that she notices the array of scars on them.

_Oh. This asshole._

Jacob uses her moment of distraction to swing her around and release her—only to grab her thrashing hands and pin her wrists to the wall. Rook stops fighting when he doesn’t make any move after that, resolving to just scowl up at him.

Jacob leans down to look at her closely. Blue, blue eyes piercing. Just as keen to not alert his guards as she is, he says his next words very quietly, voice catching. It’s as if uttering the words causes him physical pain. “Stay here—with me. Please.”

He’s still not asking, but it’s close enough. _Please_ , he said. That’s probably the closest she’ll ever get him to asking. _Please._ She wonders if he can feel her pulse quicken in her wrists.

Rook holds his gaze for a moment, icy eyes almost glowing in the dim light of the stairwell. She nods.

Slowly, cautiously, Jacob lets go of her. Maybe he thinks she’d try to run. Instead, she glances at him one more time before quietly going back up the stairs. After a beat, she hears soft footsteps of Jacob following after her.

Neither of them make a sound on their way back to Jacob’s room. Not even when they’re inside. They both stop by Jacob’s bed, and he tips his head towards it, signaling for her to get in first. Rook chews on her lip, looking anywhere but Jacob, and kicks off her boots. The only sound is the rustle of fabric as Rook slips under the sheets. It smells like Jacob. She shifts until she’s facing her back to the wall, watching Jacob shuck off his unlaced boots.

The mattress dips at Jacob’s sudden weight, and Rook scoots back some more, making room for him as he settles under the sheets. It’s not too comfortable, going to sleep on a bed with week-old jeans on. But they’re both fully dressed, so this probably isn’t the best time to take off her pants. There’s already a heavy air of uncertainty around all of this, she’s not gonna make it worse.

“You know,” Rook begins quietly. “They say people sleep better when they feel safe and protected.”

Beside her, Jacob stares up at the ceiling, unimpressed. “Who’s _‘they’?”_

“Internet or something.”

Jacob scoffs.

“You know what makes someone feel safe?” Rook says, ignoring the sudden urge to ask ‘ _do I make you feel safe?’_ Jacob looks at her. Rook lightly pushes his shoulder. “Turn around, onto your side.”

With a grumpy look on his face, Jacob starts to move, turning to face her. Rook stops him and nudges his shoulder again. “No—face the other way.”

His gaze turns into a death stare. “Whatever your planning—”

“I’m not _scheming_ ,” Rook rolls her eyes and nudges him again. “Just. Humor me for a second.”

Jacob doesn’t look at all pleased, mouth twitching, but he indulges her request. Rook pulls the sheets back towards her when Jacob’s done shifting the other way, the movement had yanked the blanket right off her.

“Okay,” Rook says when he’s settled. Tense, but settled. She turns on her side and scoots towards his back. “Don’t kill me.”

She snakes her hand under his arm, sliding her arm as far around his broad chest as she can go, and presses herself flush against his back. She’s gonna lose her damn mind. _Jacob Seed, little spoon._

Jacob goes completely still, voice coming out low and stilted. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Deputy?”

She hugs him tighter, pressing her face into the base of his neck. He shudders when she speaks into him, voice slightly muffled. “Do you feel _‘safe and protected’?”_

If anything, the muscles in his back grow even tenser. _Guess that’s not gonna work._

“Do you want me to let go?” she asks, already retracting her grasp.

Jacob grabs her wrist and pulls her arm back around him. “No.”

Rook sinks back into Jacob, squeezing once. “Okay.”

It takes a couple minutes for Jacob to relax, but when he finally does, the shift in demeanor is visible—the steady, soft breathing, the slackened shoulders, the warm hand no longer holding her wrist but merely wrapped loosely around it. He’s not asleep yet though, she can tell by the occasional irregular breath, but she thinks he’s well on his way.

“This might not work all the time, you know,” Rook whispers, reveling in Jacob’s gentle shudder when her breath fans the bare skin of his neck. “I can’t fix your problems.”

He squeezes her wrist. Then, a muffled, “I know.”

Rook closes her eyes at that. She has no idea what’s gonna happen after this, what’s gonna happen in the morning. If this somehow becomes a regular thing—she doesn’t know how they’re gonna manage this on opposite sides.

That’s a problem for later. Rook allows herself to relax, letting her mind go blank as she tries to sleep. She listens to Jacob’s breathing, still reeling in the fact that she’s holding him in her arms. She hears his breath quiet and slow, the rhythm of it like a lullaby.

Jacob sleeps, and Rook follows soon after.

In the morning, she’s the first to wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the idiots finally stopped--well, no, they didn't stop being idiots. but it's done!!
> 
> alternative titles to this fic:  
> "jacob wants to be spooned by the deputy but doesn't know how to ask for things"  
> "jacob seed and his deep-seated emotional issues strike again"  
> "the deputy can't believe that people this emotionally constipated exist"  
> "staci pratt lies wide awake in the other room unintentionally overhearing the most ridiculous argument in existence"
> 
> i hope you all enjoyed reading! thank you so much for your comments and kudos, i love reading them <3 <3 <3 <3
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧](http://lowtldes.tumblr.com)


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